Veil of Night: A Novel

Chapter Four

JACLYN SLIPPED OUT OF BED AT FIVE O’CLOCK THE NEXT morning and, bemused, stood there listening to the slight snoring sound Eric was making: not really a snore, but more than just breathing. It sounded almost like a soft growl rumbling, barely audible, in his throat: a subconscious warning to any nearby predators maybe?

She silently picked up her pajamas, guided by the faint glow of the night-light in the bathroom, and tiptoed out of the room—not just to let him sleep, but because she didn’t want to startle him awake. Last night when she’d let him in she’d been so focused on the feel and smell and taste of him, on satisfying that incredibly strong sexual urge, that she hadn’t noticed anything else. After their second bout of lovemaking, though, she’d gotten up to go to the bathroom and spied the big black pistol lying on the bedside table. How could she have missed that when they were fighting to get each other out of their clothes? She felt as if she’d stepped over a rattlesnake without seeing it, or something like that.

She was uneasy with guns; she didn’t know anything about them, and didn’t want to learn. Never mind that she was a born-and-bred Southerner; she didn’t go hunting, she went to the theater and shopping, which perhaps was a different kind of hunting but so far hadn’t required any weapon other than a credit card.

Her father wasn’t an outdoorsman, and neither was her ex-husband. In fact, the closest her ex came to the outdoors was when he went to a football game and actually sat in a stadium, drinking beer and feeling manly even though he didn’t particularly care for football, and did it only because it enhanced his image as a lawyerly good old boy. His saving grace, Jaclyn remembered, was that he’d had a sense of humor about it. Steve wasn’t a bad guy, he just wasn’t the guy for her.

The fact was, she’d never been around guns, had never slept with a man who came to bed armed. What would happen if she shook him awake? Would he grab for the gun? She didn’t want to find out, so she was extra careful not to make any noise as she eased the bedroom door closed.

Now what?

That was a question with as many layers as an onion. The first and most obvious answer was to go to the second bathroom. After relieving herself—and noting that sex was evidently like exercise, that unless you did it regularly an energetic bout made you sore—she put on her pajamas, got a drink of water, and combed her fingers through her hair because her brush was in her bedroom.

Next up: coffee.

She put on the coffee, and while it was brewing she stood in the kitchen with a hundred things running through her mind. Thinking about Eric made her uneasy, so she focused on work. She had a lot to do today, which meant she had to get an early start. Getting an early start meant she had to dislodge the cop from her bed and send him on his way so she could get ready. Dislodging him meant she had to wake him up. Waking him up meant she might be taking her life in her hands, depending on how jumpy he was, though probably he didn’t go for his gun first thing. After all, if cops regularly shot the women they slept with, it would be all over the news.

Well, that was a comforting thought. Not.

Too late, she realized that she should have awakened Eric before she ever got out of bed, but she hadn’t been thinking clearly. She hadn’t wanted him to see her with bed head, or maybe try to kiss her while she had morning breath, or, God forbid, hear her peeing. None of that ever seemed to bother men, but it sure as hell bothered her. She didn’t know him well enough to let him hear her peeing. Never mind that they’d had sex three times: first the hot, frantic sex, then relaxed sex, and the last time had been sleepy, cuddly sex at two in the morning—she still didn’t know him. She knew a lot of things about him, mainly on the physical level, but she didn’t know him.

What she did know was that she needed to shower and get ready. She needed to be in the office by seven; she had to move, and move fast. She needed to get the cop out of her bed and out of the house so she could do this, and she didn’t have time for chitchat.

The coffeemaker finished its burping and spewing, beeping to let her know the coffee was ready. Gratefully she grabbed two cups, then paused and gave them a thoughtful look. Yeah, that would work. She knew just how to get him moving out the door, with a minimum of fuss.

Eric woke up when Jaclyn eased out of the bedroom. Through slitted eyes he admired the lean, graceful curves of her body just before she slipped out of sight and carefully closed the bedroom door. There wasn’t a lot of her, but what she had was shaped just right, from her small, high breasts with those tight little nipples to the round curve of her ass. And her legs … holy fuck, her legs were a wet dream by themselves, slim and firmly muscled, and satiny smooth. He might never recover from the high of having those legs wrap around him and hug him tight.

But he should have gone home last night and not stayed in bed with her. Now what? He hated the awkwardness of the morning after. Did she want a morning quickie? He’d be glad to oblige her, except he needed to get home, shower, shave, and change clothes, and get to work, and women tended to get pissed if a man turned them down, no matter how good an excuse he had. Maybe she’d just want to cuddle or—God, he’d rather have a kick to the balls—talk about last night. Why did women always want to talk about the night before, at least if there had been sex involved? Just let it be. They’d had the hots for each other from the minute they’d collided at city hall, he’d asked, and she’d said yes. It wasn’t any more complicated than that.

He wanted to see her again, yeah, but he didn’t want to dissect everything he’d said and done last night … not that he’d said much. Neither of them had. Between bouts of sex, they’d both slept. When they’d met up in the bar she’d talked easily and with confidence, but after they were in bed talking had been kept to a minimum. It was nice, being with a woman who didn’t think a good time to have an in-depth discussion about anything was while she was having sex. He liked that, liked her … so far.

But because he wanted to see her again, he figured he couldn’t just get up, get dressed, and leave. He’d have to pave the way, make sure he didn’t do anything to piss her off—such as getting up, getting dressed, and leaving. Which was why he should have done just that last night, with a hug and a kiss and a promise to call her later. For some stupid reason, women didn’t seem to mind a guy leaving at night, but if you stayed until morning all sorts of weird rules kicked in, and damn if he knew what they were.

He rolled over and looked at the clock, and his eyebrows rose. Just after five. She’d said she was busy this week, and if she had to get up at five o’clock she hadn’t been exaggerating. He had no idea what a wedding planner had to do that took up so much time—how hard could it be?—but she was conscientious about the job, and he liked that. Too many people these days blew off their responsibilities as if only stupid people actually did their jobs to the best of their abilities. Of course, being a cop meant he pretty much dealt with the dregs anyway, but he ran into that privileged, smart-ass, I’m entitled attitude every day in people who hadn’t earned a tenth of the regard they thought they should have.

He couldn’t hear her moving around anywhere in the house, but he caught the faint aroma of fresh coffee, which was enough to get him out of the bed. A quick visit to the bathroom, then he began pulling on his clothes. He had on his underwear and pants, and was sitting on the bed putting on his socks and shoes, when the door opened and Jaclyn came in, carrying a big mug of coffee in one hand and a … to-go cup in the other.

“I don’t know how you drink your coffee, so I brought two packs of sugar and two creamers, and a stirrer,” she said, extending the to-go cup to him. Startled, he automatically took it. The sugar, creamer, and stirrer were in a plastic sandwich bag, along with a neatly folded paper napkin. “I’m really rushed, I need to jump in the shower,” she continued. “Could you make sure the door locks behind you as you leave? Thanks, you’re a sweetheart. Call me in a week or so.” She bent down, brushed a quick kiss across his forehead, then disappeared into the bathroom. He heard the snick of the lock as she turned it, and a moment later came the sound of running water.

Huh.

He sat there on the bed, staring at the to-go cup in his hand. Get up, get your clothes on, and leave. The only way she could have been any plainer was if she’d pushed him out the door.

He guessed it was safe to say she wasn’t interested in talking about the night before. For a moment he wavered between relieved and … well, fuck! He was a little pissed. Women were supposed to want to talk about it; that showed they were interested, that they were feeling the vibes and the heat. What was he supposed to think now? That Jaclyn had wanted sex but nothing else, and now that she’d been laid she wanted him gone?

He set the coffee on the bedside table and finished dressing. As he slipped his service weapon into the holster on his belt he wondered if the pistol had spooked her. She wasn’t a cop groupie, so maybe she hadn’t liked it that he’d automatically placed the weapon within reach. He’d developed the habit when he’d been on the Atlanta P.D., and now it was so ingrained he hadn’t even thought about what he was doing.

She didn’t seem like the skittish type, but he didn’t know her well enough to decide. For whatever reason, she didn’t want him hanging around for breakfast. Okay, he could oblige her. It wasn’t as if they didn’t want the same thing.

He looked at the closed bathroom door and muttered, “I feel so used.” Then he grinned, shrugged, grabbed the cup of coffee, and headed downstairs.

Eric let himself out of the town house, making certain the door was locked behind him. A light rain was falling, and the streetlights gleamed on wet pavement. The predawn air was cool, with a damp breeze blowing from the west; maybe the clouds would hang in there and the day wouldn’t be so miserably hot. He hadn’t heard any weather predictions so the rain kind of surprised him, but it was a pleasant surprise. The officers working traffic might not agree—he’d always hated a rainy day when he was on traffic detail—but as far as he was concerned, any break from the heat was good.

He stood for a moment on her small, covered front porch, looking around to make certain everything seemed normal—no suspicious cars, no suspicious people—before going down the steps and down the short sidewalk to his car. This was a good area, so a clunker car would be a jarring note. No one was out and about yet, though some of the other town houses had lights on inside, indicating more early risers.

Once he was in his car, he removed the lid from the cup of coffee, dumped in both packs of sugar and one of the packs of creamer, then used the little plastic stick to stir it all together. He lifted the cup to take his first swallow. Then the coffee hit his taste buds and he spewed the coffee back into the cup, shuddering. Holy hell, what was that shit?

Something flavored, and not a good flavor, either. What was it with women, messing with coffee? What was wrong with coffee that tasted like coffee? Who needed maple-strawberry-peanut-whatever? Even worse: not only was the flavor weird, but it also tasted weak. The woman had great legs, but she didn’t know how to make decent coffee.

In a strange way, that made him like her more. If she’d made great coffee, she would have been too perfect. This was better. God knows he wasn’t perfect, so the fact that her coffee sucked put them more on the same level.

But he seriously needed a cup of coffee, and no way was he swallowing so much as a sip of that poison. There was an open-all-night service station/convenience store just down the road, though, that would have coffee—maybe not the freshest in the world, but he was used to old, bitter coffee; that was why he used both sugar and creamer, to make it drinkable. Too bad sugar and creamer couldn’t do anything to disguise the awful flavor of Jaclyn’s brew; if they actually started seeing each other on a regular basis, he’d have to take over the coffeemaking, because he couldn’t drink that swill even to be polite.

When he got to the convenience store, a guy dressed like a construction worker was putting gas in a dusty Ford pickup. A ten-year-old black subcompact was parked off to the side; probably the clerk’s ride. As Eric pulled into a parking slot, the construction worker finished fueling and stood for a moment waiting for his credit card payment slip from the pump. He tore it off, carefully folded it, and put it in his wallet, then got in the truck and drove away.

Going inside, Eric nodded to the clerk, a skinny guy with a receding chin who had been watching through the window as the construction worker gassed up, and went straight to the coffee counter at the back of the store, where the motor oil, gas additives, and windshield washing liquid were shelved. The clerk looked faintly alarmed, and edged back behind the checkout counter.

Eric caught a glimpse of himself in the shiny surface of the coffee machines, and grimaced. No wonder the clerk looked a little worried. Not only did he need a shave, but he hadn’t even dragged his fingers through his hair before leaving Jaclyn’s. He hadn’t tucked his shirttail in—after all, he was going home to shower and change clothes, so he hadn’t seen the need—but he’d pulled on his jacket to cover his weapon. All in all, he looked as if he’d just had a mug shot taken.

He pulled a tall cup from the stack and dumped in two sugars and one creamer, then filled the cup to the brim. As he was fitting a black lid on the cup he heard a vehicle with a loud muffler pull up to the store. The engine didn’t cut off.

Shit. What were the odds? What were the fucking odds?

Instinctively he ducked down, hiding himself from whoever came through the door. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the driver was having trouble getting the car started, maybe the battery was low, so he didn’t want to take the chance of cutting off the engine and not being able to get it started again.

He heard the chime over the door as it opened, and momentarily the sound of the running motor was even louder. It was nothing, he thought. Even an idiot would notice the car parked practically in front of the door, and realize someone else was in here with the clerk. And only a cop would hear a car left running outside and immediately think Quick getaway. His Spidey sense had short-circuited after a hot night of sex, that was all. Traffic outside was picking up as dawn came closer, not a good time for a robbery, any fool knew that.

It was noth—

Crash!

Something was knocked over, the harsh sound exploding in the small building along with yells and swearing, then a hoarse voice yelling, “Gimme the money, motherfucker, or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off!”

Fuck. It was something.

Damn it, he knew it, he’d known it as soon as the car pulled up outside. His weapon was in his hand, and he didn’t remember drawing it. It was just there, because instinctively he’d known that car meant trouble. Just as instinctively, he’d noticed the clerk’s position, and could tell the robber was between him and the clerk. He could fire, but if he missed he was likely to kill the clerk.

And if he discharged his weapon, there’d be forms to fill out for the next month, even if he didn’t hit the fucking robber, and if he did hit him he’d be relegated to desk duty while an internal investigation took place.

Just as quickly as he’d drawn his weapon, he shoved it back into his holster, grabbed a can of motor oil from the shelf in front of him, raised it, and whipped it toward the robber’s head with every ounce of strength in his throwing arm. The guy wore a black hooded sweatshirt, with the hood pulled up over his head—had to be hot as hell—but even with the hood to cushion the impact, the can hit his head with a sound like a cantaloupe being dropped on the floor. The robber went down as if he’d been pole-axed—or, in this case, motor-oiled.

Eric drew his weapon again and bolted for the door, hitting it with his shoulder and skidding to a stop beside the getaway car, his weapon leveled through the open window at the driver, who turned out to be a girl wearing a tiny green halter and a pair of Daisy Dukes. “Police!” he barked, identifying himself. “Turn off the engine and put your hands behind your head.”

She stared at the impressive barrel of his service weapon, aimed right at her. Her lower lip began quivering, her face screwed up, and she began bawling. “He made me!” she squalled.

“Yeah, right,” Eric muttered. His damn coffee was getting cold, he needed a shower, it was obvious he hadn’t been home, which was going to give everyone something to talk about, and here he was, stuck with Bonnie and Clyde. He took a quick glance over his shoulder; he could see the clerk had come out from behind the counter and was talking on the phone. The robber was still down for the count.

“I said turn off the engine!”

Still sniveling, she did.

“Okay, now get out of the car. We’re going inside with your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” She got out of the car, and all the time he was cuffing her she kept babbling about how she didn’t even know the guy, he’d gotten in her car at a red light, he’d held a gun on her and made her drive here, she hadn’t known what he was doing—

“And that’s why you didn’t just drive off when he came inside?” Eric asked drily as he ushered her inside where he could keep an eye on her. The clerk jerked around, evidently not as reassured as he should have been by the girl being cuffed, his eyes widening at the sight of the weapon in Eric’s hand. “Police,” Eric said, briefly flashing his badge. Hell, why couldn’t the moron put three and three together, and come up with “cop”?

The guy on the ground was moaning, beginning to stir. He’d have a headache from hell, probably a concussion, but Eric used his extra set of cuffs to secure him anyway. He could already hear sirens; good response time, he thought. But then, Hopewell wasn’t Atlanta, and the night shift didn’t have a whole lot to occupy its time.

Less than thirty seconds later two squad cars slid into the parking lot, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Eric stared down at his two prisoners and the freaked-out clerk, and heaved a sigh. All he’d wanted was a damn cup of coffee.